


Show Me Your Teeth!

by MonsterParade



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, I wanted to touch its teeth and this happened, M/M, Other, but the clown form presents that way, just a lil drabble between commissions, labeled m/m and Other because Pen is not male, so pick your poison!, takes place in the Devorer universe, the self-insert is me!, this is not inherently romantic but it's not inherently platonic either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 19:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20802083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterParade/pseuds/MonsterParade
Summary: You'll pry 'Pennywise with a soft spot for one (1) human being and only them' from my cold dead hands





	Show Me Your Teeth!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope at least one other person enjoys reading this! UwU  
Find me at silas-ships or harderfasterwreckers on tumblr-- commissions are currently closed, but who knows when they could open back up!

“My, Penny, what big teeth you have!“

Silas smiles a little at his own lame joke, but it’s tense and distracted, overexcited– his usual humor is on hold while he gingerly, _very _gingerly stretches his hands out, towards the eternal-horror-given-form that crouches in front of him like a big cat in the jungle, and brushes the edge of one of _many_ rows of sharp, sharp teeth.  
  
His hands are shaky and hesitant as he lightly runs along the line of an open lip, fingertips just skimming as he waits for the startle, for the snap and the scare that he’s sure Pennywise is planning. Why else would It so readily indulge this request of his?  
  
He glances at it, nervously, _pretty _sure that It’s not too interested in biting his hands off after all this time but _afraid _that It might, and he can see Its nostrils flaring as It catches the scent of his quiet fear and licks Its lips and teeth. Drool pools along the curve of Its open-mouthed smile and drips in sluggish ropes from Its jaw.  
  
**_“Afraid?”_** It asks, in a knowing voice that comes from somewhere that is not Its mouth. It sounds unbearably smug, and It stretches Its jaw a little wider as if to welcome him in more, inviting him to touch, wet flesh and tongue the color of clotting blood and teeth pale yellow juts of bone. There are shark teeth and needle teeth and teeth that remind Silas of a dog’s all mixed up in there together, and of course instinct is _screaming _at him to reel back and _run, you cannot rest there are monsters here–_  
  
Silas pushes that instinct back down his own throat with what has now been quite a lot of practice.  
  
“A little,” he admits, knowing there would be no point in lying. His hands keep skimming nonetheless, feeling out the dullest-looking teeth to start gently touching– they are all simultaneously gritty and slimy underneath his fingertips, like a river rock covered with sludge, like the wet brick walls that line the mouth of the well that Pennywise lives down, but Silas is already too entranced to mind the texture.  
  
“You’re so cool,” he mutters to It, edging his hand a little deeper into Its cavernous maw and then jerking it back as the clown twitches like It’s going to snap. Pennywise laughs, guffawing and giggling at his reflexive reaction, and he gives It a mild glare of irritation and purses his lips. “Oh! Sir, that is _rude_.”  
  
“Rude, rude, you’re such a _prude_– stick your hand in the box, find out what’s inside! Grab the tongue, win a _prize!”_ It garbles in response, in a pitchy, wailing voice like a carnival barker over a loudspeaker. Again, Its open mouth doesn’t move, but Its voice comes from somewhere down the wet dark of Its throat, and Silas is reminded unwillingly and obnoxiously of a megaphone being spoken through.  
  
“You’re off the shits,” he tells It fondly, and the being’s familiar antics actually soothe his nerves a little, comforting more than disorienting after all this time. He grabs hold of a canine tooth between his thumb and index finger and gives it a tiny tug, a cheeky little shake. “Are you _actually _going to let me do this, or is this just another one of your goof-em-ups?”  
  
_“Blaaargh,”_ Pennywise replies, Its long tongue lolling out and stretching and rolling, and it coils around Silas’ wrist like a fat slimy worm and drags his arm forward and into Its mouth before he can really even start to protest. Silas flinches instinctively as his delicate skin is pulled to rest inside damp puffs of breath and rings and rings of razor teeth, and he automatically closes his eyes and freezes, waiting for the snap of jaws and the rending of skin and bone– but, surprisingly, _blessedly,_ it doesn’t actually come.  
  
He peeks open an eye.  
  
Pennywise looks back at him with eyes that have been displaced by the stretching of Its maw, familiar yellow eyes that now rest, momentarily, on Its throat just underneath Its jaw, and makes a chuffing sound that peters off into another laugh.  
  
“Touch them,” It commands him, “_You _wanted this. Touch and see!”  
  
Silas shivers a little, but obediently opens his hand and stretches out his fingers, and in careful, testing strokes he begins to feel along the lines of Its teeth. He feels vertically along the needle-like ones that bristle from Its gums in clumps like something on a deep-sea fish, avoiding the points, and the canine-like ones that rest heavy in the corners of Its lower jaw– if Pennywise were a ‘real’ creature, this setup would be so packed and misaligned that he doubts It would even be able to close Its mouth.  
  
…It’s almost _unbearably _cool. To get this hands-on experience, to know he’s being favored by something older than his entire _universe_, something that could bite through his meat and bones like it were wet tissue paper and whom _had _done so to others, innumerable times before. It gives him that rush of adrenaline that he craves so much, and his stomach erupts into butterflies.  
  
“Pen, you’re so _beautiful,_” he says, his voice coming out in an unintentional hush. And it’s _true_; It really is beautiful, just in the same way a lion is beautiful when it stalks and tears and kills, something that scares you just as much as you can’t look away from it. “You– _tsssh!_ Fuck.”  
  
Silas yanks his hand back as his fingers slip in a rope of drool and a line of white-hot pain opens itself up diagonally across his index and middle fingers, stinging as alien saliva gets into the brand-new wound. He’d caught himself on the edge of one of those serrated shark teeth, slicing through his own skin like he’d grabbed a kitchen knife by the blade, and as he pulls his hand back to himself and cradles it to his chest, hissing with pain, he can see the dark red of blood welling up in the split skin, and he feels himself go cold.  
  
“Ohhh, _shit_.”  
  
His gaze darts back to Pennywise. What he sees makes his skin feel clammy as sweat breaks out along it; he sees his own blood smeared a diluted pink across a few of Pennywise’s back teeth, and a slick, worm-like tongue twisting to taste it, and he sees the slit pupils of Its misplaced eyes balloon out like black holes before narrowing into pinpricks. The gold of Its irises are now rimmed with blotted red.  
  
“Penny…?” he asks cautiously, hearing his voice waver as he watches the clown stitch Its face back together, Its eyes rolling un-tethered along the white of Its flesh until they come to rest in Its sockets again. It _stares _at him, and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel at _all_.  
  
Now he understands how his own prey must feel when they first realize they’re being hunted. Much like he imagines early man must have felt, seeing eyes so much like this watching them from an untamed wilderness.  
  
“Pennywise,” Silas says softly. He slings his voice low, into a comforting croon, like he’s talking to a startled dog, “Hey. You there, buddy? Pen-Pen? …_Please_ say something, Penny, you’re scaring me…”  
  
Pennywise growls instead; a low rumble that rises into something that sounds like the moan of an injured animal. It isn’t blinking, Its jaw working as if It’s rolling Silas’ blood around in Its mouth to chase the taste, and while Its teeth aren’t open or bared, the unfocused look in Its eyes makes Silas’ fear ramp up into something that beats a furious rhythm against his ribcage.  
  
“_Tasty, tasty, tastetaste**tasty**_**–**” the clown grits out in a thick dark voice, bubbles of spit bursting over Its lips, and Silas swallows so hard he hears his throat click. Dread settles like a stone in his stomach.  
  
He supposes he’d always known this day would come. Leopards that are kept as pets will inevitably maul their owners, and to play house with a Thing from beyond the universe, beyond space and time, well, it had just been too good to last. And too much fun to resist.  
  
“Okay,” Silas whispers, trying to verbalize his defeat and force himself into an apathy that he does not feel, knowing that running would be the worst thing he could do right now and that there’s no place in Derry he could go where It would not be able to follow him– and that whisper of sound seems to be the trigger that finally sets Pennywise off, because no sooner is it out of his mouth than the clown pounces, a blur of grey and red and jingling bells, and Silas’ head smacks painfully against the floorboards as he’s tackled to the ground.  
  
He gasps and gives a high-pitched, quavery little shriek. He shoves desperately against the bulk of Its chest, but It’s so heavy and immovable It might as well be made of stone, and he’s left simply twisting his fists into the dirty silk fabric of Its costume and helplessly clinging on. His fingers, oozing blood, stain the ruffles around Its neck.  
  
“Pennywise, Pennywise Pennywise, please, I’m not ready to die yet, please don’t– don’t–”  
  
“My dear my dear I _can’t_ let go, I’ll eat you up, I love you so!” It chants over him, wild and unfocused and _hungry,_ and Silas screams one more time and scrunches his eyes closed as he hears the creak of warping flesh, sees the flash of distending jaws and teeth lunging in above his head.  
  
He waits in blinding terror for the end to come.  
  
He keeps waiting. And it doesn’t.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
Eventually, almost numb with fear, Silas cracks open an eye and turns his head a little, just to see what could have distracted It– and he is met, with a resulting emotional dissonance that stuns him, with the sight of Pennywise’s grinning face, Its _normal _face, blue-eyed and flat-toothed and absolutely, _manically_ delighted.  
  
“…No,” Silas says weakly, not daring to believe it; and Pennywise pushes up off of him and falls backwards onto the floor to _howl _with laughter, hysterical and shrieking over Its own obscene joke, as Silas looks on with the mental gears in his head grinding so hard his ears should start to smoke.  
  
Pennywise laughs until it retches, Its voice bubbling and bouncing all over the place _(like balloons),_ and then It rolls over on the floor, the tip of Its tongue caught between Its buck front teeth as It giggles, and meets Silas’ dawning emotional cocktail of relief and fury without even a _hint _of remorse.  
  
_“Pennywise the Dancing Clown!”_ Silas yells, clapping his hands to his chest as if to slow the horrible thundering of his heart as a wave of relief sweeps all the feeling back into his body, pins-and-needles. “Are you fucking serious? I almost _pissed myself!_ Are you _fucking _serious! That is _so mean!”_  
  
He feels the way his throat closes up on the last few words, his voice shrinking to a squeak as tears brim up in his eyes, and he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, shaking with the adrenaline of it all, and starts to laugh.  
  
He’s just happy to be alive. He’s so relieved to be alive that his limbs don’t even want to move. His giggling is manic and sounds more like sobbing, but he can’t seem to help himself, and he doesn’t really bother to try.  
  
“_God_, you’re _so _mean,” he scolds Pennywise in a mutter as he feels It clamber back up on top of him, bonking him on the chin with the top of Its head and rubbing the coppery hair there back and forth against his beard. “You motherfucker…”  
  
He feels It chortle some more and snuffle Its painted nose against his Adam’s apple, feels It nibble with Its front teeth and lick and slobber in as much apology as he’s going to get, and the way it tickles is enough to take the edge off of his temper enough that he can relax.  
  
He pulls one hand away from his face to thump It frustratedly on the back, and gets a pinch to the tip of his nose and a tug for his trouble.  
  
“No sense of humor at all,” It tells him.


End file.
